Read Online Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron - Free Book Online Page A

basked sunnily in this warm atmosphere of devotion. During the last few years he had relied upon her steadfast gaze of love and longing, perhaps unconsciously enough, as one among the assortment of props and crutches—along with all the whisky, and with Peyton—which supported him against the unthinkable notion that life was not rich and purposeful and full of rewards. That face, that gaze, that adoring glance, he had believed, were nearly reward enough. She was submissive and she worshiped him, and it was for those reasons that he had loved her. It had been that way from the beginning: he talked and she listened, while through this curious interplay of self-esteem and self-effacement there ran an undercurrent of emotion they were both obliged to call love.
    Now, however, just as it had during the past few months, her presence had begun to worry him, depress him; each word she said somehow left him more and more unstrung. He wished he hadn’t brought her with him. It had only been cowardice anyway, he reflected, that prompted him to go by for her this morning, when Helen had refused him. He had wanted company, that was all; he had needed so to talk to someone.
    “What’s wrong, dear?” she said. He glanced at her. She looked hurt, hurt because he had drawn his hand away.
    “What’s wrong?” he said. “Oh, God, now really …” He looked away.
    “Yes,” she said gently. “Yes, darling. Of course. I understand. I just wish I could say something to make you feel better.” She groped in her handbag for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “There’s nothing,” she concluded, “that you can say at a time like this.”
    He didn’t answer. It had begun to get fiercely hot in the limousine. Silently Ella Swan ran a hand over her forehead. A smell of salt and tar lingered on the air, rankly suggestive of sea, heat, stagnation. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and unaccountably sneezed: would they never fix that motor? There was a dim clanking sound; at the front of the hearse he could see Mr. Casper’s rear, clad in shiny black, bent over the fender.
    “Anything you try to say at a time like this,” Dolly added, “sounds so inappropriate.” She paused. “Somehow.”
    Please be quiet. Just hush.
    A huge truck swung around the corner, roared past toward the station, heavily vibrating. On its side there were big red letters.
    SCANNELL
    Hogsheads of tobacco bobbed high above. The truck disappeared behind them, leaving an odor of tobacco, faintly acrid. Once more the hood of the hearse went down with a crash. Mr. Casper stood erect and wiped his hands. Barclay got in and started the engine; it made a fitful, hacking noise, like a dog coughing up a bone, then caught; an umbrella of blue smoke rose to the heavens and Barclay waved his arm valiantly out of the window. Mr. Casper returned with a distressed look and climbed back into the front seat. The hearse moved ahead.
    “I’m terribly sorry,” Mr. Casper said. “Terribly. On a day like this …” His voice sank into a murmur of vague, inaudible recriminations, and the limousine, too, began to move again. There were fields on either side of the road, full of marsh grass gently rustling in the sultry air; the first squat, unsightly buildings of the town loomed ahead. Gusts of air blew through the limousine, hot, laden with the odor of dead fish and rotting grass. From the shipyard, which lay not far away across the marsh, Loftis could hear the sound of metal falling, riveting hammers, the whistle of a train. They passed a little colored boy blowing on a tin horn; his eyeballs rolled back at the hearse, big black pupils wobbling in wonder. Loftis fidgeted, looked at his watch, crossed his legs again, thinking: Is not just remorse enough? Isn’t there a way to set all this right? Isn’t this grief enough? How long? What can I do? But haunting him still, his father’s ghost, words said years ago: an old man in whom obscurity resembled solemnity often